


Two Pilots in the Dust

by Killer_Koala (Squiet)



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance, The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic), Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, killjoys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:06:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8875294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squiet/pseuds/Killer_Koala
Summary: Best friends Mad Gear and Missile Kid are just two souls out in the Zones like the rest of them, but unlike those heroic Killjoys or those problematic Ultra V's, all they wanted to do was to make music.Unfortunately, it could never be that easy. There are forces of nature that can drive them so far they couldn't see the lights of Battery City. -Twenty One Pilots as Mad Gear and the Missile Kid(This story is a continuation off of the fictional world of The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys by Gerard Way and Shaun Simon.)





	1. Chapter 1

The sun rose above the horizon, flooding the empty sands like an infectious disease. Its rays hit every surface possible, and for a brief moment in time, everything looked celestial in the golden light, from a random, dirty soda can in the dirt to Mad Gear, leaning on a boulder with his arms dangling on either side of him.  
He felt limp. Numb, almost. Heat and warmth from that vibrant brilliance had an effect on him similar to chill; he felt rigid from the temperature. His back was curved against the surface of the boulder, and a smile twitched onto his lips as he felt the sun’s warmth tickle his skin under the dried sweat. It was quickly taking over the bitter cold of the night.  
He heard Missile Kid groan from inside the cave, as well as the sound of the quilt draped over him stressing against his weight. But it almost felt like a ghost of a noise, barely even there—probably because he was floating out of his consciousness, catching the breeze and flowing along with it while his body stayed on the ground.  
“Hey bro?” Missile called from inside. He had woken up. Mad Gear didn’t move to reply, keeping his eyes mesmerized on the colorful sky.  
“Bro,” Missile called again, grunting as he climbed onto his feet. “You still getting off that concert high?”  
Concert high. Mad Gear would’ve told him he was always high on the airwaves, and that music made his heart beat. But he wasn’t there; he was elsewhere.  
Last night at the Nest, the official hangout of the desert, the two of them performed a concert. It was crazy—Missile could’ve sworn he backflipped off the piano about five times, the fourth time nearly cracking his neck in half. Mad—he was floating. He danced so hard he forgot to breathe between the verses he sang. The crowd loved it.  
Missile approached Mad Gear outside, and stood by the entrance to the cave, his arms on his hips. His head fell to one side, a smile on his face. “You absent again?”  
Yes, Mad was. He did it a lot—spacing out, having vivid visions of land-bound comets and bomb showers. People in the desert found it weird, even disturbing, but whenever Missile was asked about it he shrugged and avoided the topic. Thing is, it was normal for Mad, and usually, he came out of it with a new song flying through his fingers.  
“That concert was crazy last night,” Missile spoke, entirely aware Mad couldn’t hear him, “my arms, man—“ he shook his arms, “—they’re sore from all that banging, but man, that beat was sick. Oh—hey—you heard? Apparently the Fab Four were out there, watching us. Well, not all of them, their leader, Party Poison, apparently he wasn’t there. For some reason.”  
He looked at his best friend , limp against the boulder with his eyes at the sky like a little kid with a new toy. His mouth was slightly open, and he was probably drooling. Missile looked at the ground and smirked to himself, then glanced over at the horizon, at the gray blob in the midst of sand dunes.  
It was pretty far away; almost untouchable. In fact, Missile wouldn’t’ve noticed it if it wasn’t if it wasn’t such a disruption of scenery.  
“Battery City,” he stated, sinking his hands into his pockets, “man, that was so long ago…I can’t even remember my old name. It was probably something simple, like John or something—yours started with a T, that’s all I remember.”  
He sighed. “Remember Taco Tate? The boy that lived next to you? How we uh, fled the city with his sister?”  
He nodded, feeling himself go sad for a bit. They left the city nearly sixteen years ago. Only kids, running out into the desert all the adults said was so bad for them. With only those stories about the Analog Wars, renegade misfits going by the name “killjoys.” How Taco Tate got caught by white-suited men with terrible masks and was never seen again. How they were brought in by a group of teenagers wielding neon ray guns and white highlights.  
There were nights of nightmares after that. Of dystopias where individuality was suppressed by the very city they lived in. The only comfort came from waking up in a dusty, colorful world where people were to express themselves as they pleased. Mad Gear and the Missile Kid celebrated this every night they had a concert.  
And then Mad Gear returned to his body, gasping up for a conscious breath. He flew forwards and Missile caught him, his hands grabbing at his arms. “Mad! You okay?”  
Mad Gear sighed heavily and let in generous breaths. “You—you busted your drum last night.”  
Missile pursed his lips together. He broke his base drum after jumping on it in a fit of concert high, because apparently when he doesn’t use his brain he thinks his drum would make a great trampoline. He heaved his friend up against the boulder and let him lean against it, catching his breath. “Whattaya say, go find another one after breakfast?”  
Mad furrowed his eyebrows. “We paid an arm and a leg for that thing, where do ya think we can get another one with only a handful of carbons?”  
“There’s this shop by the gas station that sells a bunch of stuff. We can walk there, it’s not too far.”  
“Doubt there’ll be a good ol’ drum just sitting on the shelf…”  
“—let’s go over this after we get something into our stomachs, alright?” Missile rubbed his friend’s back and pushed him towards the cave, smiling reassuringly. “Get some coffee while we’re at it.”  
Mad Gear nodded, biting his bottom lip as he glanced at his friend. Whatever maniac brilliance happened last night, today was going to be a long day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by @bpdilse on Tumblr

It takes three days for the shock of it to really wear off, the thought that he might never see Mad Gear again, -the thought that even if he did, he might not be the person he remembers, -and it was his fault… All of it was his fault.  
It had been a gang of zonerunners who had found him, sitting frozen where he had fallen, not moving, barely blinking. Luckily, they had recognized him by his gear, and brought him to Holiday. He wished they hadn’t brought him to her first, but she was probably the best choice.  
He couldn’t stop thinking about It- the exact moment his hand slipped out of Missile’s-the look on his face as the white thing grabbed him, the feeling of hitting the pavement, watching the van drive away, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, catching sight of Mad Gear’s just visible figure through the window of the car, limp and broken. And barely an hour before they had been sitting in their car (a crushed wreck now, somewhere to the side of the highway far out in the desert, spattered with burns and blood), Mad Gear singing, while Missile tapped out the rhythm on the wheel.  
Roman Holiday was there within hours of Dr. D’s announcement, with food, and bandages, and maybe a bit of vodka (but only to clean your scrapes, she says, as she hands him the bottle.)  
He knew she missed him, and he did miss her, but he couldn’t get caught up in her again- he had to get Mad Gear back. She was his friend, and occasionally something else, but Mad Gear was his everything. He didn’t quite know who he was without Mad Gear. They were a unit, a family, a world, “Mad Gear and The Missile Kid”.  
The posters were still up, still fluttering by various gas stations, diners, and stores alike.  
But instead of smiling and making sure to remember to stop by the station on the dates listed, they shake their heads, and sigh, wonder how that Missile Kid is doing, now that he’s alone.  
He pictures these things as he lies in the dark, clinging to his friend, newly freed from the clutches of his dreams, shaking, not wanting to wake her. If she sees him, she'll tell him to just stop worrying but he can't just stop.  
He knows that Roman Holiday has places she needs to be, but she stays with him, she stays through those horrible nights where he wakes up, five, six, seven times, shaking, unable to even scream for Mad Gear. She stays awake those nights, combing her fingers through his hair, in the dark of the abandoned motel lobby.  
He knows that he should be grateful for her, but he just wants Mad Gear back. He needs him to come back, but there's no way of finding him.  
No one wanted to tell him, if only because they knew it would break his heart, and possibly break him, if he wasn't already, but Holiday knew that she had to, because if he found out from anyone but her, she would have lose the trust she had gained in the months she had spent with him here, but no one is going to take well to the person that tells them that their best friend has betrayed them.  
He went back into the same state of unbelieving shock, barely existing, let alone living, but this time it lasted for a week, instead of almost five.  
He had a plan. A terrible, foolish, dangerous plan, but it could get Mad Gear back to him, and was all that mattered. If he died trying, then so be it, anything would be better than this.  
He knew that Holiday wouldn't let him, he knew that he shouldn't go behind her back, but his car was somewhere in the desert covered in dried blood and memories, both bad and good. He only had one chance to fix this, and he knows that Mad Gear isn't working with them, he knows that he wouldn't be, because they tried to kill him so many times, they've tried to kill both of them, and Mad Gear would never be able to overlook that. He knows that Mad Gear would hold out until his last breath, he knows that he would fight until the very end, however cheesy that may seem, he would. If not for himself then for Missile- he had to remember Before, he had to remember the scars, he had to remember him. Mad Gear couldn't have forgotten him, because if he had then, Missile was nothing. There was nothing for him without Mad Gear, people would argue, Holiday would cry, but Mad Gear always has been the most important, nothing or anything could ever come before him or Missile Kid. They were a unit, completely inseparable. Last time someone had tried to separate them, well, there was more than one reason they're wanted criminals, but no one out here has to know, not that they'd care, everyone in the zones has sent a drac or two to an early grave. And a few had even dusted a SCARECROW. Not many, everyone who had went down in history as a legend, not as a heartless murderer, like they might. But he needed Mad Gear, this was all he could be without him, a drifting being, barely surviving, not for lack of food or water or anything else deemed necessary for survival, but for lack of Him.  
He knew that this was the right thing to do, even though it wouldn't seem like it to anyone but him. He needed to get Mad Gear back, and he needed to get him back.  
This is what I need to do, this is what needs to be done  
He repeated it like a mantra until it became a constant phrase, ringing continuously through his head, as he drives towards the city in Holiday's, now his, car.  
This is what I need to do,  
I need to find Mad Gear


	3. Chapter 3

There was a burning sunlight scratching at his tired eyes as woke up somewhere in Zone 4 or 5, a sunrise untamable at best. Missile grunted, rubbing crust out of his eyes. He leant back, having laid over the wheel in an uncomfortable position, his eyes coming into contact with the old, tattered polaroid pinned onto the dashboard, of which was one of him, Mad Gear, and Roman Holiday, wearing sunglasses and standing high on a random boulder. His heart wrenched, thinking about how long he had slept—and how long Mad Gear has been by himself, lost, gallons of medication shoved down his throat by those BLI bastards…  
Missile remembered how he had stayed up all night driving, but unfortunately, him and Mad Gear had dwelled deep into the Zones, and as the desert spanned for miles, it took many hours to even scrape the side of Battery City. From behind the cloud of irrationality that came from his desperate attempt to find his best friend he told himself that he would crash if he fell asleep at the wheel going seventy, and so he pulled over at a ratty bar, a decent amount of people in the building. It was a safe bet at a quick rest, since if any white-faced goonies tried to get at him like they did Mad Gear, a mob of killjoys would bash their heads in in the name of his lost friend.  
But now the sun rose—and so, greeted with a growling stomach and a heavy heart, he pulled himself out of the car and through the double doors.  
It was the Spiky Thorns—Roman Holiday had brought him and Mad here a couple times, once with two drunk dudes who apparently really loved their music. At night it was usually infested by rats and high-heads, though in the morning’s first light it was not as crowded, a few tumbleweeds feasting on microwave dinners and grainy coffee. Missile was about to take a seat and get served soggy carrots and heavily-processed mashed potatoes, though his eyes burned and he blinked rapidly. If it wasn’t for his aching body he would’ve jumped out of his socks—he would’ve grabbed at Mad’s shoulder and burst him a huge grin.   
Seated at the bar was Party Poison—and if you barely knew Missile Kid, one of the only things you’d know about him was that he adored the Fabulous Killjoys, especially Party Poison. Missile sat himself on the stool next to him, his eyes directed at the counter as he caught a whiff of strong alcohol coming from his idol. He glanced over at him—his dirty, red hair hung over his face like a mop, his iconic blue jacket covered in dirt. He looked rougher than the desert.  
“Aching for a drink?” the bartender offered. He had appeared on front of Missile, his neon green hair spiked up high with hair gel. Missile took another glance at Party again and then clicked his tongue.  
“Can I get one of those dinners?” he asked, and the bartender nodded, walking over to get it ready. Missile peered over at Party again and considered talking to him. After all, he was almost shoulder-to-shoulder with him—it was heart-jumping. Looking closer, however, he noticed that he was asleep. Asleep in the strongest sense—heck, he was passed out, alcohol intoxicating his veins. It was almost pathetic to see his idol like that.  
If his heart wasn’t already breaking into a million pieces, he would’ve felt glass piercing his body.  
“Hot mess,” the bartender commented, seeing Missile peer at the man next to him, “racked up a bill that’ll flush his carbons dry.”  
“What happened?” Missile asked out of full concern.  
“Word’s gone around that he lost his love,” the bartender eyed the desert great, running a towel through a shot glass, “few motor babies told me it was a girl. Real special to him.”  
Missile’s heart ached in sympathy. “That’s tragic.”  
“Sure is,” the bartender agreed, “a shame. Heard she was badass. Brought down rotten apples left and right.”  
“Yeah?”  
“Yeah,” the bartender placed the glass down, shrugging, “and now she’s dead.”  
Missile heard a gun being loaded—and before he knew it Party Poison had flew off his stool, his ray gun’s barrel pressed against the bartender’s neon locks. He jerked back in his seat, startled out of his bones, as Party let out a low growl.  
“She’s not dead.”  
He withdrew his gun at once, his other hand coming up to brush hair off his face. His intimidating hazel eyes met Missile’s—and he served him a curt nod. “No autographs, kid.”  
Missile’s mouth fell open as Party reached deep into his pockets and dumped carbons on the counter. The bartender proceeded to object but Party cut him off. “You want the rest, you come over. You know where to find me.”  
Party made a break to the door, but Missile flew out of his seat, throwing an arm out. “Party, wait--!”  
He had already kicked the door open, and Missile quickly followed. The two killjoys burst into the morning light, finding the road had kicked up dirt from a van that had just parked on front of the bar.   
“…Dr. D?” Party squinted at the vehicle, familiarity in his features.  
The door flew open, and Roman Holiday flew out, her eyes instantly connecting with Missile’s. “Missile!”  
“Holiday…” her name fell out of his mouth, disbelief flooding his body. He glanced at her car and back at her, drops of guilt falling onto him as he realized his follies. “…oh god…”  
“Stole my car?” she said, incredulous at the very least. “Fuck you, Missile.”  
“—I—“  
“—you’re heading to Bat to get Mad Gear back?” she reached him, standing so close to him her breath blew hot against his skin. She stabbed a finger on his chest. “Fuck you. You’re not going without me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by @blupoprocks on Tumblr

"Holiday, I'm sorry," Missile began, trying to evade the full of her wrath by apologizing. "I just—he's my best friend. I don't know what to do."  
Holiday crossed her arms. "I know Missile. That doesn't mean you can go and steal my freaking car though. I'm coming with you."  
"To Bat?" Party spoke up, looking between Holiday and Missile. "You guys are going to Battery City to rescue one person?"  
"Well yeah," Holiday turned to him. "It's Missile's best friend."  
"I'm coming," Party said. "There's a chance she might be there."  
"Hold on!" A voice yelled from the van.  
Party sprung over to the van, assisting Dr. Death-Defying out of it in his wheelchair.  
"Thank you," Dr. Death said kindly to Party.  
Party nodded.  
Dr. Death turned to face Holiday and Missile. "Going to Battery City, eh?"  
Missile said nothing and stared at him in awe. This was Dr. Death-Defying, master of the airwaves in the zones and all the way to Easties, standing before him.  
"Yeah," Holiday said, clearly unfazed by the fame of Dr. D. "Sorry, forgot to mention on in our way."  
Dr. D crossed his arms over his chest. "And do you have any idea how you're going to get there?"  
"In Holiday's car," Missile answered.  
"Wait a minute—" Holiday began.  
"And when you get there? How are you going to evade BL/ind? Find Mad Gear? Do you even know where he is?" he pressed.  
"No," Missile admitted, sighing.  
"Then you're going to need help." Party pointed out. "Two Killjoys versus all of Bat City? That's not going to end well."  
"Neither will an army of Killjoys," Holiday shot back.  
Dr. Death shrugged. "Not going in, no. That doesn't mean you can't get help from anyone," he turned to the van, Party helping him back in. "Come on now, we have to get you guys some equipment."   
The drive was almost silent, with the exception of humming radio static and the clunky engine.   
Missile had his face pressed against the window in the van, watching the desert race past the vehicle.  
Holiday was in her own car on her own, saying she'd follow them separately. Show Pony was driving, Dr. D next to him and Party Poison was seated next to Missile.  
The radio crackled to life, buzzing and cracking loudly.  
"Main shack to Dr. D: Have you got Missile Kid?" A voice fuzzed in.  
Dr. D picked up the receiver and hit the button on the side. "Dr. D to min shack: We have found Missile. Headed to you now."  
The radio faded back into static and the van was quiet once again.  
Missile sighed, wondering how the Fabulous Four could help him. I mean, they were some of the most well-known killjoys in the zones, but this wasn't a mission for them. It was for him, and Holiday.   
The van took a sharp turn, stopping in front of what looked like an old gas stop.  
"And here's where it all happens, kid," Party grinned, sliding the door open and hopping out of the van.  
Show turned the keys and got out of the driver's seat, helping Dr. D onto the ground.  
Missile cambered out, gawking at what he presumed was Dr. D's radio shack.  
The paint he'd imagined was once a bright yellow now faded and peeling off the wooden walls of the hovel. A once neon sign hung above the door on one tack, the glass tubes spelling out "Gusty's" in cursive.  
"We need to take that down," Show commented as he opened the door, Dr. D wheeling in.  
Missile stepped into the shack, marvelling at the walls covered in maps, drawings and photos.  
"Wow," he breathed.  
"Pretty spectacular, huh?" Party chucked, swaggering up beside him.  
Missile nodded rapidly. He'd always thought coming to Dr. D's shack would be amazing, but this just oozed glory.  
Holiday marched in, barely missing the swing door Show had just let go of. "Where's everyone else?"  
"Right here," a head stuck out of an adjacent doorway, smiling widely.  
Missile recognized him immediately as Jet Star, crazy hair, infectious smile and all.  
"Hey Jet," Party greeted. "Kobra and Ghoul here?"  
Jet nodded, stepping into the room.  
Two others followed him into the open, a short man with shaggy black hair who was tossing a green ray gun between his hands and a tall, lanky man with sunglasses pressed high on his forehead and fiddling with a circuit box.  
Fun Ghoul and Kobra Kid. Missile thought in awe.  
"So this is the infamous Missile Kid!" Fun Ghoul chuckled, putting his ray gun back into its holster and putting a hand out for Missile to shake. "You're an awesome drummer, man."  
"Thanks," Missile shook his hand.  
Kobra looked to Dr. D. "Are they actually going to Bat City?"  
Dr. D nodded grimly. "And your brother's gotten it into his head that she's there too."  
Kobra whirled on Party. "You can't seriously—!"  
"Kobra, protesting against it won't sway me," Party crossed his arms. "I know she's not dead."  
Kobra sighed.  
"Okay fine, they're going," Jet swept his hands in the air. "So what's the plan then? We don't know where they are or anything!"  
"Actually," Holiday spoke up. "In Bat, there's a maximum security just in the outskirts of the city BL/ind uses for primarily killjoys. Mad’s probably there."  
"Where's it by?" Show asked.  
"The old power plant out on route 99."  
Show frowned, going to a large box full of scrolls. "I think Virtue's sketched that one out."  
"Virtue?" Missile echoed, not recognizing the name.  
"Show's cartographer friend," Jet explained. "She's good at what she does."  
Show pulled out an exceptionally large map and spread it out on one of the tables. "Her dad's a Crow. She stole some of the layouts from him."  
Missile leaned closer to the map, looking at the mazes of corridors and plethora of messy handwriting littering the pages. "That's a big jail."  
"No kidding," Ghoul agreed. "How are you going to even find Mad Gear?"  
Holiday pointed towards a group of five cells separated from the others and next to a decontamination chamber. "See those? They're sectioned off and kept behind three layers of protection. Those have to be major threats to BL/ind. Mad's got to be there."  
"Then we have a plan," Party looked up at Missile, a sideways grin on his face. "Ready, Kid?"


	5. Chapter 5

The walls were thin in the shack – the killjoys seemed to have operated with little to no privacy, or at least sufficed with an illusion of it. Missile Kid had roamed around what little space there was to explore, nearly drowning himself in the history within the old vinyls and books and newspaper clippings scattered about. It was near to a museum he was free to roam about, with polaroids of the killjoys when they were younger, personal clothing hanging on every surface, and Fun Ghoul aiming about lacking a shirt and flashing his ink everywhere.   
That killjoy, Fun Ghoul – he gave Missile this funny look whenever he walked past him, accompanied with a welcoming smile. Missile assumed it was because he liked his music – but that uneasiness that trailed after him pointed to something a little more dire.   
But the walls were thin – it wasn’t any longer about the mission, no, the killjoys were preoccupied packing, so was Holiday – but it was about Jet and Party in a separate room, yelling so loud the walls may as well have been deemed irrelevant.  
“—drunk!”  
“I always come home drunk, Jet, it’s not a big deal.”  
“I don’t even know where to start – you get drunk, you’re halfway off your knocker, and you really think she’s in Bat City?”  
“I just want to help Missile,” Party tried to reason politely, but the increasing anger in Jet’s voice may’ve set him on edge, considering how foreign it sounded.  
“You don’t want to help Missile. I can tell. We want to, but you don’t. You just want to do it for her, even though it’s completely stupid – “  
“—hey, Jet,” Party’s voice shook, “stop mentioning her…”  
“I know I’m usually the reasonable one here, but I have to. You’re in denial, Party. She’s not coming back.”  
“Jet, stop…”  
“There’s no way – it’s basically impossible. You’re never going to see her again.”  
“Can you drop it?” Party yelled. He spoke at the same volume as him, with a scary sort-of shaky rage. “Stop it, Jet!”  
“I’m not –“  
“—I drink, okay? I drink a lot, because it fucking hurts. It hurts so much; I have to drink. And I want to help Missile, because that’s what we do, we help people. So drop it, Jet – there’s nothing to talk about.”  
Their voices kept on banging against the walls, slowly rising in heat and volume. Holiday edged into the room Missile was in, trudging past a mini-mountain of speakers. “Holy shit,” she murmured, her voice layered in slight fascination, “are Jet Star and Party Poison arguing?”  
“Did you hear about it?” Missile asked. He felt like he needed to, because he was a huge fan of Party Poison. “Did you hear about Party Poison’s girlfriend? Because I didn’t.”  
Holiday was almost surprised. “You’re a Party Poison fanboy, Missile! How’d you not know?”  
“You knew?” Missile gasped. He lowered his voice, even though it was far from as loud as Jet and Party’s. “How?”  
“I was at Spiky Thorns, having a drink with a few friends. One of ‘em told me about it. Apparently it was a sandstorm – she walked out one day and vanished. Everyone thinks she’s dead but Party’s convinced she’s out there somewhere.”  
“Who was she?”  
Holiday let out a sigh, giving Missile a look that was full of sympathy towards Party Poison. “I never got the full story, but remember that really psycho crash queen? Well, she was the one who killed him.”  
“I heard – “ and Missile tingled with surprise, “ – that’s badass! Holy crap, Mad and were talking about it a whole night once. She’s a legend.”  
“Was,” Holiday said sadly, “unfortunately.”  
“You’re losing it,” Jet’s voice grew even louder all of a sudden, “You need to let go of Hel – “  
“—DON’T FUCKING SAY HER NAME!” Party roared, and shortly after a crashing BANG emitted out of the room. Both Holiday and Missile ran towards the door, bursting it open to respond to the sound.  
Neither Jet or Party were hurt. The room – a bedroom – featured a chair that had been thrown aside in anguish, in between the two red-faced killjoys. Jet Star, his chest violently heaving, quietly and politely asked Missile and Holiday to move out the way, and edged out of the room without another word. Party, on the other hand, seemed to blink back tears, but wore a scowl to shield his obvious upset.  
“Is everyone ready to go?” he asked.  
-  
Missile and Holiday both had said the words “Thank you” so many times it was hard to count how many. There, spread across the flat expanse of sand on front of the shack, was the entire effort that the killjoys had dedicated to finding Mad Gear – it was almost unreal.  
About a dozen killjoys were spread across their various vehicles, on foldable tables, reviewing blueprints and weapons and inventory and any other item needed for a sandy coup d’etat. There was a weapons expert, a Bat City guide, a caterer, some muscle, some brains, and some support. Dr. D rolled about to provide a sturdy eye over the progress, of which had since then grown to a mini-camp. The killjoys made themselves busying chatting and helping the team.  
“Kobra Kid?” Missile reached out towards the closest killjoy. Holiday trailed after him. “Is this all for Mad Gear?”  
Kobra turned around, slick-chrome with his sunglasses burning against the sunlight. “Oh, yeah, all of it.”  
“This is so much. Wow, thank you.”  
“Don’t mention it,” Kobra flashed a smile, almost excitable, “really. Everyone here’s all about helping fellow killjoys in need.”  
Missile looked over at Holiday, who seemed like she was nearly bursting at the seams, eager to tell him about Jet and Party’s argument. Missile sent a stern look her way, and she huffed slightly at his disapproval.  
“Why not?” she asked out loud, and Missile clicked his tongue in distaste.  
Kobra, of whom was overseeing a table of scrap and seemingly useful doohickeys, turned back around with his eyebrows raised. “Hm?”  
“It’s nothing,” Missile ushered out quickly, but Holiday was less discreet.  
“Inside in the shack, Jet and Party were arguing.”  
“Holiday!” Missile shot at his friend. He was mad at her lack of discretion; these were the Fabulous Killjoys and this was their private business, and he didn’t want to poke his nose into any of it. He respected them too much for that – respected them up to the point they may as well be higher beings than him.  
Kobra’s face was shocked – well, it was hard to decipher, because his eyes were hidden behind his sunglasses – but he kept his composure, wiping off some car grease on his jeans. “Oh…well, that doesn’t sound like Jet. He’s usually the calm one.”  
“They were arguing about Party drinking and not letting go of his girlfriend.”  
I swear, Holiday, you need to stop. Missile found himself thinking. These are the Fabulous Killjoys, you can’t just do this!  
Kobra didn’t look uncomfortable – rather, he looked like he had much experience with beating around the bush. “Roman Holiday, it’s cool. Really. You don’t need to worry about it – everyone loses people they care about, you know? All you can do is shake it off and move on.”  
That struck Missile Kid hard in the heart. Kobra noticed this immediately after his words escaped his mouth, and he let out a gasping sigh. “Oh – oh shoot, Missile, I’m sorry man, I didn’t mean – “  
“ – it’s fine,” Missile quickly hiccupped. Holiday shot an apologetic look over her shoulder. “really. You guys are trying all you can, it’s fine.”  
It wasn’t fine.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by @rotteneyes on Tumblr

For almost a week since Mad Gear was gone, Missile was too shocked, too busy to take some time to think. He sat behind the shack, his knees folding up against his chest and his hands scratching his skull, and every thought he's been repressing is overwhelming him violently. He feels dirty, lost and extremely alone. He misses Mad Gear, he's so empty without him by his side, his chest almost hurt as if he felt guilty for what happened. He should have been more careful, paid more attention, he should have tightened his hand around Mad's. But now, all that's left to him are the crumpled paper he kept to write some lyrics and the bitter regrets in his throat. He feels his nails in his head's skin; even the pain can't affect him.  
A question is still burning his lips though, a question of which no one knows the answer. Why did these Dracs take Mad instead of killing him? They left Missile for dead, why take him? He can't give them anything, he doesn't know anything they could want.   
Thinking about it, he met him almost two years after he escape the town, in the same time as Mad but not together. In two years a lot of things can happen, Missile knows that. But Mad Gear would have told him if he knew something dangerous for BLI, right? He felt the doubt slowly filling him, the sadness that he didn't wanted to confide in him, the anger that he didn't, the betrayal from the fact he didn't trust him. He knows it's foolish, that it's just a presumption and it can be something else, but the fear started to crawl in his stomach. And if they decide to send an Exterminator torturing him to get these information? What if he's screaming in pain and Missile is sitting here doing nothing? What if he's already full of pills and walking in the white uniform in the city like a good soldier? What if he's dead because Missile didn't make it fast enough?  
He withdraws on himself when he feels his guts twist in his belly. He's pathetic, lamenting behind the shack when a dozen of killjoys are here to help him. That's why he needs Mad Gear, cause alone he can't make it. He's pathetic. He repeats these words again and again, letting the doubt sinking in his brain.   
"Missile?" He quickly looks up. He doesn't need someone to witness him right now. In front him stands Party Poison, hands on his hips and his jacket closed up. Missile bites his tongue, getting up instantly, almost tripping. Awesome, the person he admires the most in the Zones had just seen him like that. "What are you doing here?"  
"Nothing." answers Missile, running a nervous hand through his hair. Stupid habit.  
"We'll find him, don't worry." Party tries to reassure, but all he feels is the wave of anger rising from his stomach.  
"Like we will find your friend?" Just when the words pass his lips, regret replaced the wrath. The face of Party collapses, pain and sorrow rising and covering the earlier compassion. "I.. I'm sorry, I didn't.. Sorry, forget that."  
"Nah, you're right. We'll find them. I know she's out there, alive. Maybe with your friend. So yes, I will find her. Because I can't not find her." Party turns his eyes to look at a cactus behind him, lost in his thoughts and concerned.  
"What happened?" hesitates Missile when he says nothing more. Party turns back to look him in the eyes, and he almost feels frozen. The hazel eyes are harsh, full of determination. Missile's sure he could deflect a bull's herd just with that look.  
Suddenly, with that look, Missile is aware of everything that's happening around him. Party is suffering, Jet and Kobra don't know how to help him or make him understand she's dead, Fun Ghoul must try to do all he can to make him realize what everyone've been saying to Missile. On the other side of the shack, he hears the laugh the talks from all the killjoys who came to help him. He sees the light fading away slowly. Soon they will be on the road to Battery City. He realizes that Holiday must be sick with worry for him and Mad, since it's as bad for her as it is for Missile Kid. He realizes that these last days, he shut himself away from everyone and let him being eat alive by the loneliness and the regrets when he should have listened, when he could have acted sooner. He feels abandoned, but he can count on Holiday, on the Fabulous Four, on all of those killjoys here for him and Mad Gear.   
He still had the feeling of being pathetic in his stomach, but the rage to find Mad suddenly ignites him. Seeing Party Poison in front of him, broken by the loss of his friend but still standing and determined; he knows that if he can, then him, Missile Kid, can make at least as much for Mad Gear.  
"She's gone." Party slowly articulates while turning away from Missile. "One night she went out and now she's gone. There was a sandstorm, a patrol of BLI must have found her. She's alive, I know it. I feel it.” He insists on the latest syllables before turning his attention Missile. "As alive as your friend."  
"Mad Gear won't be for long." A whole bunch of emotions jostle in his head. The fear that he might be dead, that he might suffer, the loneliness and the absence in his chest, the pain from the separation, the sorrow and the treason that Mad could have hide him something, that he didn't trust him enough. The exhaustion of the last days and the rage that animates him. He feels so much he could almost want to taste one of these pills. Almost.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written by @lapieuvrebleue on Tumblr

The sun was still low in the sky but the temperature was already reaching unbearable heights in zone 5. By the window, Missile Kid was watching Pony skate back to the dinner holding a small square box in his hand. When he closed his eyes the sun would bath his whole world in red and fire, burning his eyelids, his cheeks, his throat. He’d see fireworks, bright and loud, like Mad Gear would always fuck around with, giggling to the sky about making Missile fall from the dead stars, about destroying Battery City, about oceans of caffeine and neon washing over him and bringing the end of the world, about vivid dreams of explosions, colours and dancing, dancing on stage to the destruction of all things BLI/ind. Missile smiled and opened his eyes to look by the window again. He couldn’t see Pony anymore.   
“How far were you gone, tumbleweed?”  
Missile turned his head toward the voice and Show Pony arched a purple eyebrow.  
“Far.   
“Well come back to Earth, we all have to talk, I have news and help.”  
In the bigger room of the gas station, everyone had gathered, sitting on crates, stools, petrol cans and broken tables. Missile nodded at Holiday and sat by Jet Star on a big, round oil can sitting on its side. He smiled faintly at the killjoy and turned to Dr. D and Pony, who was waving the square box he still had in his hand and which turned out to be a Geiger counter.  
“I have some good news. The radiations today are on our side, not in the sense that they’re low, but that they’re just above the security level for dracs. We should be trail free until at least zone 2, maybe even the border to zone 1.  
“We’re going to split; Dr. D said after a second of silence; we’ll have four vehicles available. Hot Chimp would have helped but she’s on the other side of zone 6, it would take her a couple days to rally us. I contacted News A Go-Go for you crazy kids, and she found you a fifth ride. I hope you didn’t eat too much Power Pup yesterday because some of you are going to cruise on The Food Truck.”  
Kobra Kid and Holiday both made a noise of urgent delight and it made Party huff a laugh for the first in a while. Missile had only spent little time with the fabulous four, but it had become pretty clear that Holiday’s disgust for the pre-moistened kibbles could only be rivalled by Kobra’s hatred of them. The Food Truck could supply them with sautéed noodles, dark bread and fried potatoes squares, all of it traded from civilian compounds over on zone 4 and 5 and cooked in the truck. Sometimes they even had beer from the zone 6 brewery, and it wasn’t half bad if you didn’t look too closely at the ingredients.  
“Yes, yes, it’s all well and shiny, but they won’t be here until later this morning. We have to hope the radiation level stays high and be ready to leave as soon as they arrive, in about an hour or so. They’ll drive you up to zone 1, but no further. You can load two motorcycles on the back of their truck and cross zone 1 with them, stealthily. Everyone else will take separate roads starting zone 4 and reconvene at the South-East border tunnel, just on the outskirt of Route 99. You all know they increase surveillance during high radiation waves so be careful.”  
They all nodded, interjected a word of agreement or two and the room emptied quickly after that.  
*  
They had met strangely.  
The Mad Gear and Missile Kid. They had met strangely.  
Mad Gear already had his Dream, his Vision of Galactic Shatter, of a dancing weapon fallen from the sky, and his music called to everyone, his fireworks called to the dead stars, and he called to the weapon.  
It was after a show, a long time ago when Mad Gear was still alone on stage, before Missile Kid. Mad Gear had launched fireworks and exploding powders full of colours and sounds once again and this kid in the audience, unknown and unknowing, had vibrated and danced along, screamed in delight at the terrifying display.  
The fireworks rose, and fell. And it fell on this kid, unknown and unknowing, shattering galaxies, awakening stars, destroying the dirt and this kid’s world.  
He woke up, somehow, and Mad Gear was there, looking with wide eyes full of dust and mouth full of sound to be shared and brought to life.  
“Hey, Missile Kid. Good of you to join.”  
Missile had just smiled and coughed, and coughed, lungs filled with gunpowder, his mind blown in all possible ways, and he laughed, and laughed.  
The Mad Gear and Missile Kid. They had met strangely. They had known each others for years, for years in Battery City before they fled. They had other names then. Names that had gone forgotten, buried in sand storms and acid rains. They had known each other for years before Missile Kid was born to the world in the Galactic Shatter of The Mad Gear’s mind.  
That night the sand had been cold under their skin, the night sky dark and empty as always but for the blinking lights of satellites, and they had seen the future.  
“One day; Mad Gear always said; One day you’ll destroy it all. And we’ll dance in the ruins of Battery city.”  
One day.  
*  
“Missile. We’re taking off.”  
Missile rubbed his hands roughly against his face and got up, joining Holiday outside the gas station. Killjoys were getting in cars, pushing two motorcycles in the back of the food truck, throwing explosives from hands to hands, sharing maps and filtered water bottles. Some food was given from The Food Truck and shared all around by the two women driving it, to eat on the road.  
“Are you riding with me?”  
Missile nodded, gratefully took a carton box full of noodles from the tall Food Truck cook who winked at him, and got into Holiday’s car.  
“Yeah, it’s time. Let’s prove Mad Gear right.”  
“About what?  
“Let’s go destroy BLI.”


	8. Chapter 8

“No! NOOO!”  
Holiday had just turned the engine to roar when the Fab Four crawled into view of the car mirrors, trudging weight behind them. Gradually, the entire caravan became alert and the roar of engines slowed died down, killjoys flooding out of the vehicles to crowd around them. No one had noticed they were gone, not even Missile. As evident to the concerned blanket of murmuring, something terrible had happened, and Missile reached over to Holiday to tell her to stop the engine, hopping out after them. She wrenched her door open and called out at him. “HEY! What’s going on?”  
Missile pushed at a tall-looking teenager and a crash queen with a sharp yellow Mohawk, forcing his way to the center of the crowd, stopping at the quartet in the middle. Jet Star was already lost out of the congregation and Kobra Kid was pushing at a few bodies – blood was splattered over the sand. Missile’s breath got caught in his throat.  
“What happened?” he asked himself, but his voice was drowned out by the concerned chatter, and the tall Food Truck cook crashed through a few tumbleweeds to drape herself over Fun Ghoul, who was partially lying on the ground. Her hair, previously captured in a hair net, obstructed Missile’s view of Ghoul’s face, but as he shifted in the crowd he caught sight of it – he was sobbing, his face shiny with blood and tears.  
“Ghoul!” Show Pony cried in an exasperated tone, “Come on, spill! What’s wrong?”  
“Yeah!” a random killjoy shouted, and a few others expressed loud concern. Amidst the rising volume, Fun Ghoul’s face grew redder, trying to block tears that were obviously flooding out anyway.  
Missile looked around – killjoys with eyes filled to the brim with worry, with a shining hope for Mad Gear and fiery revenge for BLI – and noticed that all of that was starting to melt in the sun that got hotter and hotter. He wondered how long it would keep up. And then, in an instant, he saw Party Poison.  
His mask had ridden up to his forehead, his red hair flying out in random directions – he was clutching onto his gun, finger still on the trigger as if it had been glued there. Dirt covered his jacket, but none of that had struck Missile with worry. It was the empty look on his face, the shocked one, staring at a random spot in the sands as his being swayed in imaginary wind. He looked like Mad Gear up on his visions but he was struck with pain rather than inspiration.  
“Oh god…” Missile felt Holiday’s voice rumble in his ear, and he found her clutching to his side, as if trying to keep what hope he had left in him from flooding out. “…what…”  
“ – THEY TOOK THE GIRL!” Fun Ghoul wailed, clenching his teeth together – he was visibly pained trying to stop himself from crying. “THEY TOOK HER!”  
A gasp swept around the crowd. Slowly, it dissolved into murmurs. Missile’s eyes darted over to meet Holiday’s, and she stared at him with shock. Party absentmindedly took a step towards Missile’s side of the crowd and Jet Star, of whom had taken a few steps out only to have found the crowd to keep him contained within, called out above the voices. “Korse was off on his patrol, and we thought we’d pull him off-track to make room while she dropped something off at the mailbox on the way.”  
His voice cracked on the last word, and Jet’s face was dug into Show Pony’s shoulder, shedding tears. The crowd grew louder in volume, calling for anger-fueled revenge, for the explosive downfall of Better Living Industries, and for Mad Gear and the Girl to be returned to the desert, where they belonged. Killjoys that Missile had never seen before fumbled with anger and soppy tears, saying his best friend’s name and “save” in the same sentence. It was a rising feeling, different than what it had felt before, rising up to a giant ball of red-hot hatred.  
Party was close enough to talk to now, his hazel eyes directed at thin air. “Hey,” Missile called out to him, “are you – are you okay?”  
He didn’t reply. Instead, Dr. D rolled into the middle of the crowd – his loud, booming voice extinguished all others. “EVERYONE! Hey, calm it down!”  
The killjoys fell to the faint whoosh of the desert wind. “These pigs and the Joys had a clap, and they caught the Girl. But lucky for us, we’re already headed on a rescue mission. We can just catch the Girl too.”  
“So let’s go then!” someone yelled, and the rest of the zonerunners roared up in agreement. They rallied towards the caravan to recapture their original aim, but the movement slowed when Party had begun to speak.  
“Let’s go,” he let out in a weak, barely loud volume, “let’s save all the loved ones we’ve lost.”  
His eyes met Missile’s, radiating with hazel pain. Missile was going to open his mouth but Fun Ghoul had flew up from the ground and tackled Party, grabbing at his shoulders with strong anger.  
“You,” Ghoul hissed, his entire face contorted in fury, “you need to stop with Death, she’s fucking dead! Fucking dead, you hear me? She’s not in fucking BLI and you need to stop being so selfish because the Girl’s gone and it’s all our faults, okay?”  
He shook Party by the collar but he was limp in his grip. He only stared at his friend as a few strong arms tried to pull him off. Once Ghoul was fully restrained and completely separated from Party, he began snarling at his direction again, being pulled towards the Trans Am, “She’s the reason you lost your concentration and why we lost that firefight, you asshole! The Girl would still be here!”  
Kobra and Jet trailed after Fun Ghoul, pushing him away from the red-headed shell. Party looked over at his friends, losing whatever spark he had in him. The crowd had just started to loosen, staring from out their windows and hanging over the sides of the vehicles. Missile and Holiday were the only ones standing still beside Party, and it left the three in a shocked silence in which there as only one thing to say.  
“Party,” Missile spoke, his throat dry, “do you want to drive with us?”  
Holiday took a step forwards and placed her hand on the killjoy’s shoulder, watching his eyes float up to meet Missile’s. It was a pivoting matter that had Missile feeling both doubt and hope stir within him – Party was falling, and the stakes of this rescue mission had raised higher. Party Poison nodded at him, and Holiday fell backwards to start the car. The caravan started to move, and the day had officially begun.


	9. Chapter 9

“WOOHOO!”  
Holiday laughed to herself as she watched a shirtless killjoy dance at the back of a pickup on front of her. Leaning on the wheel, she gave him a wave, head slightly nodding to the bass of the boom box fixated to the back of the truck. Morale was high within the caravan, and as it sped down at 60, dust swirled around the scent of chow mien that was shot backwards in the wind. Riff-heavy music beat their hearts.  
Missile and Party seemed to had lifted their spirits as well – both of them cracked smiles as Holiday started murmuring lyrics to the song playing, nails tapping against the car window. A killjoy popped open a confetti cannon, and with a sharp pop shreds of color caught at the windshield.   
“What’s this, a party?” Holiday joked, and suddenly the intensity of the situation leaked back into the air of the car, and the smiles quickly disappeared.  
Not soon after, the caravan began to quiet down. Battery City had just reached the horizon, and as the sunrise blossomed, the sky began to darken in the pollution. Like a looming shadow, the caravan was slowly engulfed in incoming metropolis. The shirtless killjoy had taken a seat, watching the city with a tense back.  
The caravan was not to stop. No matter what happened, no matter how many bullets were shot, they had to keep on running. It was straight, straight from the beginning site to the BLI headquarters. At the gates a majority of the caravan would pull over and hide in the grass, while three vehicles, the killjoys’ Trans Am, Holiday’s ride, and another cruiser would rumble into the courtyard. All guns blazing, they would strut in through the front doors, grab the Girl (and Party’s lady, if applicable) and leave straight-on. A demolitions expert riding a hot-red hippie van even had a Plan Z of C4s and a splash of paint. “A big fuck you,” he told Missile and Holiday, “courtesy of the dustbugs out here.”  
Missile Kid didn’t like Battery City. Of course he didn’t. He hated every inch of it, from the blank apartment his parents had lived in to the soggy sidewalks he walked on the way to school. He hated it even more now that it had taken Mad Gear away from him.  
Mad Gear. He sniffed, eyeing the skyscrapers swiftly approaching. He could sense he was coming nearer.   
It was going to be just as planned. It was going to clean; straight in, straight out. It had to be. There was complete confidence. There was a shitload of firepower. There was the Fabulous Killjoys. How can they lose?  
He found solace when they got to the tunnel, staying out of sight of the city, but it felt too soon when the road shot up back into the air, shrouded deep into the city. The two motorcyclists that had crossed Zone 1 on bikes served them thumbs-up as they whizzed up to the front of the caravan.  
The car whizzed past a billboard. Buildings whizzed past, and suddenly the entire caravan was surrounded by grey and black. Missile tried not to look out the window; the caravan was still going a strong 50, and suddenly it fell cold in the car.  
“Oh, god…” Missile took in a sharp breath, “…was it always this cold?”  
Party grunted a reply. “Stupid tech.”  
“I’d rather be sweaty 24/7,” Holiday agreed.  
The city was closing in on them. It almost felt like Missile Kid could not breathe. He stared at his boots, his dusty boots, and hoped he could have just brought a handful of the desert with him. The heat, the freedom. The city felt like cold chains slowly choking him to death.  
“There’s a sharp turn coming up,” Party warned Holiday five minutes into the city, “it’s onto a long boulevard that’s gonna give straight access to the prison.”  
“To the right?”  
“Yeah. I’ll tell you when.”  
The road stretched. And then all of a sudden, on front of a grey apartment building, the first car in the caravan rattled around a corner, quicky followed by each car after. Holiday ticked her tongue. “Oh – shit, they mad? Hitting a sharp turn at 55?”  
“Do it,” Party hissed, “NOW!”  
The car tumbled onto the curb – with sudden inertia, the car was thrusted to the right, landing at an awkward angle onto the boulevard. Nevertheless, Holiday maintained speed and caught up with the caravan. She let a sharp curse under her breath as Party nodded to himself, holding his forehead. “That was good, Roman.”  
Holiday blew a strand of hair off her face. “Thanks.”  
Party was right – the caravan received down a long, full boulevard that had the tall towers of the prison clearly in sight. The giant smiley face logo stared them down.   
Missile willed himself to stare at the sidewalks they whizzed past. He furrowed his brow. “Where are all the dracs? The scarecrows, aren’t they supposed to be on our asses right about now?”  
“No chance,” Party replied, tucking his hair behind his ears. “They created a diversion before day broke. They’re all responding to a bunch of fires some kids lit on the other side of the city. No ghosts.”  
“That’s good,” Missile remarked.  
“But there’s who knows so many in prison.”  
“That’s…not good.”  
Holiday mustered a snicker – but it was only possible by her relief of hitting the turn.  
Speed bumps dotted the road ahead as they got closer to the prison – once it was close enough to breathe, vans and trucks rattled carelessly over the bumps at six times the suggested speed, nearly setting the motorcycles high up in the air. A general chuckle fell through the caravan, a nervous one from the unexpected shot of adrenaline. These continued until the gate was visible.  
It was ajar – a motorcycle revved up to who knows how fast and booted off to push the gate open with all his might. Just as the Trans Am cleared him the caravan sliced in half – they disappeared in the tree-lined parks on either side of the prison. Soon, it was just the Trans Am, the pickup truck, and Holiday’s ride, a trio of isolated cars ratting down the paved yard.  
The Trans Am drove into the middle and parked at an angle – the other two cars followed suit. Not even after the engines were revved off did the cars open and killjoys emerge from the vehicles. Kobra Kid, Jet Star, and Fun Ghoul strode out of the Trans Am. A mohawk man, the now fully-clothed dancing killjoy, and another pink-haired killjoy walked out of the pickup. Lastly, Holiday, Missile, and Party, quickly catching up with the six killjoys on front of them.  
Missile was numb. The air around him was bitter and brittle, and he couldn’t keep his knees from shaking against one another. He forced himself to keep going, though – the killjoys took long strides, and not a single one of them hesitated as they made haste towards the front doors of the prison. They were going fast, not fast with excitement, but fast with a damn scary adrenaline rush. Party Poison clutched onto his yellow gun, so hard it seemed his knuckles would pop off. His brow was set, his eyes staring down the front door with a burning determination. He picked his pace up and lined up with Fun Ghoul’s shoulder.  
Beside Missile, Holiday was double-wielding. She spun them around her fingers. Missile muttered, “I’m not so good at shooting.”  
Holiday’s breath caught in her throat, and then she said, “Get Mad. I’ll cover you.”  
Missile’s thoughts became panicked. He thought about Dr. D back in the Zones, how there were so many valuable killjoys that didn’t make it on time to help them out. He thought about their odds if they were by their side. If the entire desert was by their side. Sure, there were a lot people, but…was this enough?  
Lasers exploded out of the front entrance. Missile immediately ducked, but the four killjoys on front of him continued striding the pace, shooting back. He quickly ran to catch up with them, sweating with shaky fright. He raised his hand up and shot a few, landing one shot that finished off a drac that Kobra Kid had shot in the leg. Holiday hit Missile on the shoulder and shot a “Good job” his way.  
The killjoys pushed through the glass doors. Missile stepped over dozens of bodies on the floor, accidentally stepping on a drac on the chest. The off-side lobby was quickly cleared of living beings, and instead of observing the room of dead BLI personnel, the killjoys did not halt and did not stop, not even for a second, to look at the carnage. Missile wanted to – but if he had, he would have missed the elevator that they had all squeezed into.  
The air inside of the ten-second ride was dusty and damp – Kobra muttered in the middle, “I memorized the map layouts. Just follow my lead,” right before the elevator doors gave way.  
More dracs. More guards. They just kept going down and down, and Missile couldn’t keep track. Down, down like sacks of potatoes, dragging down walls, collapsing on their guns and letting out yells of agony. The killjoys did not stop. Missile was tired, but they didn’t stop. They kept on going, going, like they would die if they even hesitated a step.  
The off-white walls clashed with the flying lasers, and as half of the squad reloaded the other half relentlessly fired. They threw empty batteries to the ground and spitted blood-laced saliva on the floor.   
After a long white hallway, there was a sharp left, a few seconds of relentless firefight, and Missile nearly smashed into a wall. The killjoys had stopped. The mohawk man beside him let out a breath of content, gesturing towards the fab joys – Party was on his knees, and the eight-year old afro kid, hazel eyes fresh with tears, was clutched tight in his arms. Fun Ghoul glanced over at the Girl with immense relief and stared, with vigilance, at the courtyard below.  
“You’re going to be okay sweetie,” Party muttered to her.  
“There was a lady…”  
“Let’s get you home.”  
Missile felt the sudden urge to stare back at the hallway they had came from – it was still full of still bodies, but empty of any living things. He looked back, relieved, but found that the Girl was standing motionless, Party nowhere in sight.


	10. Chapter 10

“Secured the Girl, heading back now,” Jet muttered into a walkie.   
A static voice replied, “Oh, thank fucking god. Backup is entering the courtyard in five. Hurry.”  
“But wait, guys…” Missile spoke up, throat dry, “where’s Party?”  
The Girl sniffed, staring at the ground with sad eyes, and Kobra glanced around rapidly, cursing sharply. “Where did he go?”  
The Girl shot a finger up to the right, and Kobra grabbed her by the arm. “Guys. He’s heading towards the decontamination chambers.”  
“Mad Gear,” fell out of Missile’s mouth. Fun Ghoul looked back at him.  
“He should’ve waited for us,” Kobra murmured, and the squad started off towards the chambers, Kobra leading. Jet Star muttered into the walkie.  
“Now approaching decontamination chambers.”  
“Backup will be there at four. Crack a window open.”  
A sign overhead read DECONTAMINATION CHAMBERS half a minute down the hallway. Kobra Kid shot at a window and as the glass shattered, he didn’t miss a beat in striding down the hallway.  
The block on front of them was a wide room, reminiscent of a regular prison block, but the doors to the cells were pure metal, with the littlest window at eye level. The block was silent except for muffled yelling that suddenly became clear.  
In the midst of the off-white, bone-shakingly bleak expanse, Party ran across the windows, peeking into every single cell. “Death? DEATH? Babe, where are you?”  
“Freaking psycho!” Kobra stated angrily, and stomped forwards to restrain his brother. Fun Ghoul ordered the other killjoys to quickly search the entire block for Mad Gear, leaving Missile with the Girl standing by his side. Frightened by the noise everyone was making, she leaned against his leg. Missile didn’t know what to do but put a hand on her shoulder.  
“Stop,” Kobra shoved Party on the shoulder. “stop it. We’re in the middle of a goddamn prison in the middle of goddamn BAT, stop the shit!”  
“She has to be here, she has to be here can’t you see that – no,” Party pushed back, “leave me be, Kid, god!”  
“There’s no time for this! We get Mad and we LEAVE!”  
“We can’t leave without - !”  
Footsteps came storming down the hallway, and everyone’s heads snapped back. Fortunately, it was a dozen ragtag killjoys, dusty, sweaty, and eager to shoot. Everyone’s guns were pointed at the ceiling.   
“Look for Mad Gear!” Fun Ghoul yelled at them, and immediately they all stormed throughout the block, rising up staircases to reach the upper level.  
In the midst of the wasting time, the frantic search for Missile’s friend, the two brothers were still arguing. “Party, listen to me. We need to – “  
“ – I’m looking for her, you’re not gonna stop me.”  
“OH FUCK YOU!” Kobra screeched, gesturing at all the killjoys, “THEY’RE ALL GONNA DIE IF YOU DON’T GET YOUR ACT TOGETHER, SHE’S IN A DIFFERENT UNIVERSE FOR FUCK’S SAKES, STOP BEING A FUCKING IDIOT!”  
Kobra pushed at Party and Party pushed back. A laser was fired from the hallway, shooting a killjoy dead. Half of the killjoys fired back, demolishing an incoming wave of dracs. The first casualty shattered Party, and he left his argument with Kobra finally. He told him, “We have to get the Girl out of here.”  
Kobra let out a relieved breath. “Yes, yes we do. But first…”  
But Party had grabbed the Girl’s hand, pulling her out of Missile’s grip. He strode towards a large opening on the opposite of the block with the Girl trailing behind him, her big eyes staring at Kobra.  
“FOUND HIM!” a yell came from the lower level at the far corner of the room, a killjoy waving his hand frantically at Missile. Missile made a beeline, heart raising up. Holiday was on his heels.  
“HEY – GODDAMMIT, EVERYONE GO AFTER PARTY!” Kobra yelled over the increasing pandemonium. Roughly seven killjoys were holding off dracs in the previous hallway, and everyone else stormed after Party, of whom was off to the front lobby.  
Missile ignored Kobra. The killjoy who had discovered Mad had successfully pulled the door open, and Missile threw himself in, at the mass of a human curled up on the floor. Tears immediately fell out of his eyes. “Mad!”  
Holiday fell to her knees beside them, and Missile frantically searched for Mad’s face. He flipped him over, and his familiar, dazed face, was pale and lined with red. His brown eyes were locked onto his, glassed over. Missile was reduced to certain tears, and Holiday reached forwards to run her fingers through his hair.  
“Mad Gear,” Missile grinned at his best friend. “We’re here. Me and Holiday.”  
The killjoy at the door had disappeared, running after Party. Holiday leapt up and pulled the door closed, returning back to Mad’s side.  
“...M…Missile?” Mad’s voice was weak and dry. “Holiday?”  
“We’re here, buddy!” Holiday exclaimed, soppy wet tears of relief falling out of her. She clutched onto Missile’s arm and Mad’s shoulder, “We’re here, we’re gonna get you out!”  
From the front lobby, heightened chaos could be heard. Shattering shrieks of pain and whizzing lasers emitted from behind them. Holiday and Missile ignored this.   
Mad tried to pull himself up – he was too weak. Missile pulled him up so he could sit up, and Holiday caught him in a hug.  
The three of them were back together – past all the sands, all the emotion, all the adventure – they were back together.  
The Girl’s screams were the loudest. Her cries and her shrieks echoed off the walls, bouncing off of them. She yelled and she yelled, until her voice suddenly became choked. Then, she became to scream words. “THEY’RE DEAD! THEY’RE DEAD! PARTY!”  
Then Mad Gear asked: “Did we destroy them all?”  
“PARTY NO! KOBRA! NO WAIT – GHOUL, WAIT – “  
Missile looked at Holiday. It was only a matter of time before they found them. He looked over at Mad, and he said:  
“Yes. Yes we did.”


End file.
